• 84

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    He lets you get out of the truck where an expanse of forest begins. You have the strangest feeling that you’re almost there. You notice some fireflies lighting up in sync as the evening falls and now you harbor even more certitude as to where your destination lies. You become aware of the driver’s “extra-sensory” knowledge of your present location – following your every move by way of the triangulating satellites in orbit.

    Then you suddenly become aware of the GPS tracker at the base of your spine, tapped into every lane of traffic in your central nervous system. In an attempt to destroy this horrifying sense of total invasion, you take a running burst down the nearest slop into the woods. Your tonsils are tickling your throat now like mad as you balance your walk.

    “My tonsils…they’re sensing something…guiding me somewhere!” They’re known to become especially ticklish when something of philosophical significance is nearby so you simply follow their lead.

    You eventually stumble, literally, upon a water-logged magazine that’s been partially carbonized by fire. You frantically finger through the pages until you come upon the phrase your GPS-inspired tonsil-sense had led you to: The stars shine during the day though we cannot see them.

    Only when the spinal fluid all rushes to the base of your neck and the plasma comes out of that area of your skin like an exploded cattail, do you finally…finally understand that scene in El Topo when those 300 furry bunny rabbits dropped dead.

    The End.

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